Being Right

I don't know how to sing. In church I kind of sway and warble, but no stranger ever accosts me later and says "we sure would like for you to sing at our wedding".  I don't dance much if I can help it. I'll never go to the moon.

I'm not likely to ever become a woman. I won't invent a new kind of asphalt shingle that engages in photosynthesis to combat global warming. I haven't even thought of a better way to collect rainwater than "barrel" or "mouth".

There are many things I've missed out on, I guess. But you know what I can do? Read a speed limit sign. I can do that.

I have some latent confusion regarding my relationship to the number painted on those signs, so to help me understand more clearly what the police think about that number and my relationship with it, I bought a "Valentine One" radar detector. Then, I bought a special mount for it. Then I bought a special bluetooth module. Then I bought a little thing to plug it into my mirror. Then I bought an entire cell phone that does nothing but help manage the beeps and beeboops that emanate from the detector itself that needed the bluetooth module to work. Then, I bought two special magnetic mounts (one for both my phones) and I got so excited about them I bought 5 more to give as gifts. Then, I accidentally left them in a cardboard box and Tyler threw them away. She never throws HER stuff away by accident. Only mine. It's how she rolls.

To make all that detector stuff work I then discovered that I had to learn something about radar detectors themselves or nothing really made sense. On top of THAT I had to read up on radar itself. Did you know "Ka" band is superwide? Yeah. I know all about that.

Finally. I was ready to roll. And roll I did: right through a laser speed trap, which radar detectors don't help with. When your radar detector says "LASER!" it's really just saying "Hey. You got a ticket just now! How did it feel?"

I am emotionally invested in my radar detector setup. I can't help it, but its true. So, when the cop clomped his way up to my window, leaned in and said "I see you have a radar detector in there son" with a little chuckle - I found myself feeling very betrayed and vulnerable.

He continued: "I guess I definitely have to write you a ticket now. On account of seeing that there radar detector".

This was a bit much. I mean, you can insult me, sure. But not my radar setup. That's private.

So, I said "Here's the thing officer. The way I figure it - if there's a state patrolman standing in my window by the side of the highway with his hand on his sidearm and he's asking me pointed questions about a radar detector. I'm already getting a ticket. Don't you figure?"

He thought about it for a minute and said "I reckon so." and just like that: he handed me a ticket.

I do love being right.

I'm Back

I’m quite a bit older since we last spoke. I have a bunch of new gray hair that looks terrible and won’t lay down well at all. BUT I’m already married! Hah! Take that, universe!

Since I don’t have to attract a mate anymore with my fancy hair - bring on the grays. I'm ready.

I want to catch you up on the last year or so, but I don’t want to go overboard. I’ll hit the highlights, such as they are. 

I blew up a truck motor this year. That was pretty satisfying. Not just anyone can break a whole motor from inside the cab using nothing but his right foot and his mind, but I did it! It made a really big noise that was some “gnashing” but also a “rending” coupled with a “clatter” and a “knock, knock bang” followed by at least one hard “crash” sound and long slow “grinding” noise right there at the end.

I quit writing a year or so ago. I don’t know why. I am a little bit sad about it, because I had some really funny thoughts that I didn’t write down and now I’m not sure I can get them back.

I’ll blame children, but it’s probably not their fault. My fallback is to blame Emily Jones for anything in general, but it’s probably not 100% her fault either. 

Funny story about Emily – she’s allergic to seafood so I always try to sneak shellfish into her meals. One night I convinced her that “crab roll” was definitely not the same thing as “seafood” (“it’s a crustacean” I said, with a winning smile) and I suggested that she should have a teeny tiny bite. I really pulled out all the stops and, by god, she went for it. Watching that tiny piece of crab roll disappear down her gullet was the moment wherein I realized I needed to be in sales. So, the aftermath was worth it (for me) if you consider the broader implications. I consider securing that first sales job a real accomplishment. Fortunately, it turns out Emily was fine and doesn't really have a true anaphylactic response to shellfish. Who knew? She's totally fine. Don’t worry.

Mostly fine. 

By “fine” what I really mean is “not dead”. She is absolutely not at all dead. She is alive, I can confirm that. She did, however, call me later that evening every half hour from 2AM to 7AM from the floor of her bathroom where she was thrashing about in the throes of totally unhinged projectile vomiting. So, to be clear: after all THAT, she was totally fine.

The voicemails were hysterical. It was a lot of broken sentences punctuated by “heaving” and "splatter". And the swearing! Good Lord! 

Heh. I know that’s not funny. I know. Practical jokes aren’t funny at all and I should be ashamed of myself. I know it.

I mean, it is a tiny bit funny though, right?

Anyway, deductive reasoning being what it is – I believe my failure to write is my wife’s fault, but it may also be my propensity for introspection, my failure to own a diesel pickup, finding out about the zika virus, or having had stitches in my foot during a beach vacation last summer, which was infuriating. Regardless, I’ve been absent. So much so - that people don’t ask me about writing anymore, which only makes me want to sulk. So I’ve done some of that too. Then, lo and behold a new computer and some space for writing shows up under the Christmas tree compliments of the wife I blame (now entirely) on my lack of writing and I find I’ve been encouraged to proceed with writing once again in a way that only a Real American could appreciate – a retail purchase!

So I’m back.  I couldn’t just let this fancy retail purchase sit there unused. If it’s not called “material guilt” it is now.

I would catch you up on more details from the last year or so, but it would read terribly average and middle-class. Here’s the highlight: I got a fancy travel bag for Christmas so I filled it up with stuff I don’t need and I spent almost all of my money trying to shoot a huge bull elk, which I was able to do only for the following reason: I went to college and he didn’t.

Sorry.

It was every bit as satisfying as you might guess.

What else? There is something else I wanted to tell you.

Ah yes. I have an extra kid! Brand new! I made this kid myself and I feel like I may have gotten this one just right. The first one is turning out to be super aggressive and powerfully outdoorsy and perhaps a tiny bit too much like me to be what you might call “perfectly centered”, so I am glad for a second chance at the goal.

This new creature is a tiny girl person and she’s probably going to be reaaaallll fancy and expensive. Before you ask: No, I’m not saving for a wedding. I don’t need to, and I know that already because I know this: she is going to have a lot of first dates that bring her home riiight on time, walk her nervously up to the front door AND NEVER COME BACK OR I’LL KILL YOU.

Her love life will be very sad, I'm sure, but not for MEEEEEE!

Maybe one day I’ll get to write about it. 

Final Comments on Fishing

Lately, I have had logjam of things to say lodged prominently in the front part of my brain which makes it nearly impossible to effectively communicate anything clever, should the opportunity arise.

I thought of something clever the other day and when I opened my mouth to speak, something else came out. It's been going about like that lately.

A number of things may be contributing to my medical condition. I'm incredibly busy and I find myself consumed with the things I have to do in order to keep my job, which I enjoy and depend upon for buying fishing equipment and Vitamin D milk and neckties and diapers and strollers and expensive city water to pour out on my front yard three days a week.

I have also reached the deeply satisfied point in an outdoorsman's life attributable to owning a glittery, carpeted, red-and-white-and-gray fishing boat. I have located Outdoorsman Zen, or my inner Ice Cave, or finally released the 12-year-old that's been pent-up inside my chest for the last 20 years. I don't know exactly how it's changed me emotionally, but it's good.

I shot sporting clays recently with my buddy Fred, who is fantastic, and another friend - an older, successful, and entertaining local businessman. Fred, who is nearly always around when something very interesting happens, made a comment about my fishing boat and the man immediately perked up. 

A boat, eh? he said
Yes Sir. 
Is it one of the sparkly kind? A sparkle boat? 
Yes Sir. I said, with pride. It is a Sparkle Boat.

....One of those boats with the rednecks in them and the glitter in the paint that you might use to fish on "The Red Man Trail" with? He snickered into his Peter Millar sleeve.

Yes Sir, I said, sensing a trap. I did not forge ahead eagerly into explaining that the "Red Man Trail" is now defunct and has since been replaced by "The Fishing League Worldwide", nor did I provide any brilliant insight on the internal politics that precipitated that great upheaval.

I knew there was something not quite right about you.
Yes sir. Would you like to ride in my sparkly boat? It goes super fast. 
You know - I think I would!

Everybody loves a sparkly boat. Unfortunately, the sparkles have done little to bolster my fishing skills and I have continued to build an incredibly mediocre name for myself on the amateur bass fishing circuit. I do, however, manage to get from one terribly unproductive fishing spot to the next with great speed and precision - which allows me to fish at least twice as much unproductive water as before. So, I consider the sparkly boat a huge success. If I am going to be a pretty bad fisherman, I at least want to get there quick!

I made my way to the front of the tournament weigh-in line at a recent event with my pitiful sack of skinny fish just as Uncle Buster sidled up with a positively frightening collection of enormous watery predators.

You get a limit? he queried, swaying and struggling to keep his plastic bag full of great green behemoths from escaping and endangering spectators.

Yeeesh! Look at that, Buster! That one just burped a live catfish!

Yeah. I did alright. He rumbled, mustache quivering as he strained to keep the mouth of his fish sack closed against the obviously dangerous animals inside.

You got 5? Tell me you at least got 5. He insisted.

Ah. Errhhhh. I got 4.....I think they might be guppies.

He looked at me hard for a second, slumped his shoulders and stalked off.

BUT THE BOAT RAN GREAT!!! I shouted after him.

The Legend of the Co-Angler Part II: Managing Expectations

Recently, Buster drew a Co-Angler that I have personally hosted in the past. He asked me in advance "is this guy a retard?" which loosely translated meant "What do I need to be aware of with this Co-Angler?"

I said, "No, he's ok. His English is so-so, but he stays out of the way for the most part. He can't back a trailer so you'll have to handle the launch yourself unless you want to watch something really special happen at the boat ramp at daylight. Trust me, I've seen it."

Buster cut his eyes at me across the tops of his sunglasses, said "O K" like that (with quotations) and drove off.

At the end of the tournament Buster pulled up in a hazy cloud of diesel emissions and said (by way of greeting) "Hey that guy is A Idiot just so you know" (sic).

I have learned to ask very vague questions instead of making statements, so I responded with "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Well, he is A Idiot. We got done fishing and you know how your Co-Angler is supposed to give you gas money for driving his butt around all day? $40 is the basic minimum. Most anybody will give you $40. Now, I don't care - don't get me wrong, but it's just the principal of the thing. You want somebody to at least offer up some cash - especially if you catch fish."

"Ok." I said, cautiously (without quotations) mentally adding up the number of times I'd fished with Buster and paid him approximately zero dollars.

"Well, we got done fishing and he rooted around in his elastic fishing pants and came out with 4 sweaty dollar bills and some change. Four dollars! I gave it right back to him, sprinkled the change all across his shoes and said "Enricardo" (which is definitely not his name) "that ain't enough".

I can only imagine 8 hours of being called "Enricardo" may have slowly eaten away at Buster's $40 Co-Angler donation, but I can only speculate.

Buster went on: "Enricardo (again, not his name) said 'Well, I have three children out of wedlock and my girlfriend and I are separated and I am having to pay $1,200 a month in child support and so..... and SO...Ah...I Am......Poor.'

I said, "HAH! Everybody is P O O R! Tough petunias! Sounds like a personal problem to me! If you think you can't afford your children you should try some of mine! You need to be at a worky-job right now, Enricardo - not out fishing in rural Alabama like an irresponsible butthole".

He produced a roast beef sammich from somewhere on his person and took an angry pull, giving me time to gather my thoughts. In my opinion, anytime you get to look someone directly in the eye, call him a "butthole" and offer him "life advice" in the same breath - you, sir, Have Become A Man. That's about as "Alpha" a move as I know of.

Out of the blue this had really gotten interesting so, I said "go ahead" which means "please continue" over a walkie-talkie.

Buster obliged:....."So I asked him "Enricardo: are you a Christian" and he said. . .  . . 'No'! How about THAT, huh? In all my life of asking people that question I have literally never, not ever, I mean NEVER had somebody just say 'No.' like that. I've had people say 'Well, I am a CATHOLIC' or 'I am a Baptist' or 'My Momma luved me and she was a Presbyterian' or whatever - which suggests they don't know what in the hell they are, but never have I had somebody say 'No'. I didn't even know what to say back! There ain't a good starting place there, you know?

So I said, 'look here, Enricardo, take your $4 and your grubby change and go home and get one more job in addition to the one you got now. If you insist on fishing 'on the cheap' - just hitch-hike and don't eat anything for two days if you have to, but make sure you pay your boater for gas or word will get out that you're a damn cheapskate. If that happens nobody will help you when you're fishing and you'll find yourself in the back of a boat pointed directly away from anything worth fishing and completely unable to do anything about it. And also - learn to operate a damn dip net properly. Watching you net fish today was like watching a guy with no hands try to fix a television set.'"

And with that, he left.

The Legend of the Co-Angler: A Sociological Study In Two Parts

As I have explained before, the fishing tournaments Buster and I attend require each "boater" to draw a random "Co-Angler" to sit in the stern and fish and also to make sure we don't cheat during the tournament - which I absolutely would do at this point.

Most people begin their fishing lives as a "Co-Angler" in order to learn the ropes. I did that once and the great, lumpy, velcro-shoed, beard-eater I was paired with absolutely traumatized me with his two-speed bass boat. It was either "off" or "WIDE OPEN" and my highly-developed sense of personal safety just won't allow for it. After our first long run of the day, Velcro-Shoes looked over at me kind of hard and said "Son there is no sense in all that hollering". Apparently, he didn't care for "wordless screams of anguish" before 7:00AM.  At the time I didn't realize that sound was coming out of me. So, I skipped over the Co-Angler stage, went home and bought my own boat. The result is - I don't know "the" ropes, or "any" ropes, or even "where they at" (to borrow a phrase from Mr. Velcro Shoes) and, as a result, nearly everything I do is wrong.

At the most recent "pre-tournament meeting" we were assigned Co-Anglers and Buster and I each placed a phone call to co-ordinate a meeting time. I dialed the number given me and, when a woman's voice answered, I said "Hello, I'm calling for Aaron".

"Hello. Yes. This is E-r-i-n" the female voice clearly enunciated.

I stood there in a rural Wal-Mart parking lot surrounded by enormous, ruddy-faced men from all walks of life, with not a single woman in sight, and I was dumbfounded - rooted to the spot; mind straining against the bounds of reason and The Universe to accept what had just befallen me.

At no point in my entire one-and-a-half years of amateur tournament fishing have I even contemplated the existence of a lady co-angler. It never occurred to me that a woman would intentionally put herself at the mercy of a strange man in a 75mph aquatic death machine. My experience with women suggests they are far too intuitive a breed to make such an egregious error in judgment.

Just then, Buster appeared out of the crowd.

You call your co-angler? He growled.
Yeah. I called that woman about fishing. I burbled mindlessly.
What in the world are you talking about? He said, beginning to generate what I have come know as his "patient face."
What? What are you talking about? He insisted again, sensing my distress. You mean you DREW A WOMAN CO-ANGLER? He cackled, gleefully.
Yes. That.
Ha!! You have to let her pee in your livewell!!!! Hahahahahahaa!!! He cackled, drawing a crowd. Jimmy drew a WOMAN Co-angler and she's going to pee in his livewell!!

In retrospect, getting from "drew a woman co-angler" to "livewell urination" was an incredibly rapid escalation, even for an Uncle, but he seemed so pleased that I didn't attempt to argue. Slowly, the earth came back into focus and what had immediately occurred to him began to dawn on me: nobody goes 9 hours without urinating unless something really big is happening like - The President is asleep across your legs, or your arm is in a lion's mouth - that kind of thing.

THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT! Buster shouted in complete ecstasy. YOU TURN AROUND AND A WOMAN OPENS THE LIVEWELL AND PEES RIGHT INSIDE!!! YOU GOT TO RUN THE AERATOR AND RUN THE PEE OUT OF THE BOAT!! HAHA HAAAA! YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE A STRANGE WOMAN PEEING IN YOUR BOAT ALL DAY!! AHAHAHAHA!!!

Then, he abruptly left, leaving me at the center of a growing circle of burly, outdoorsmen intent on offering completely unhelpful advice regarding the possibilities inherent in a strange woman spending the day in your boat.

Suddenly, the reverse hit me - what happens when a man has to pee and there sits a strange female - not 8 feet away on the open water?

I am a problem solver. I resolved to "hold it."

The following morning dawned clear and I met my lady co-angler. She was wonderful. I began to mentally prepare for an epic day of fishing with a delightful partner instead of the general run of crusty, disgruntled, middle-aged men I've been saddled with in the past. Suddenly, roughly 6 minutes into our day - I had to pee. It was 5:14AM and we were still at the ramp, but I had to go - bad. Three cups of coffee and a gallon of Gatorade did not put me on the pathway to "holding it".

Err. E-r-i-n. Eh. I, you know.
You ok? Forget something?
Ah. No. I mean ah. Well. I got to go.
Yeah, lets go! We're gonna catch em! YEAH!
No. I mean I got to ah... Eh. "Go."
Ohhhhhh. Oh. Ok. Yeah. Ok. Ah. Well....I just won't look then.
......
....Eh. Ok.

It got awkward.

I stood perched on the bow of the boat and, for the first time in my life, I got nervous. I don't generally urinate in front of strange women. It's not really my thing. I can't get into it.

I just couldn't do it. It got weirder. I stood on the front of the boat waving and bobbing for three of the longest minutes of my life thinking about watefalls, urinals, the ocean....Nothing.

Don't worry about me! Just take your time. She whispered encouragingly from the stern.

I cringed and broke a sweat.

Eh. I don't normally have this problem! I whispered back. (I don't know why we were whispering, but it seemed appropriate).

A few more moments passed. The silence grew oppressive.

Ah. Could you make some noise or sing a song or something? I whispered, to dispel the awkwardness.

What??! Ah. Ok!?!? Seriously? Ah. Ok. Eh. Ahmmmm Hummm mmm. Ammhmmm. Hmmm. Huummmmm. She began the first few bars of "Away in A Manger" for some reason which really threw me off.

No. No. No. No. Stop. Stop. Stop. I'm kidding. That was a joke. Heh heh. Heh.
Ahem.

Silence.
More time passed.

I reached a point of complete focus and enlightenment as my tonsils began to float. I understood eternity. I contemplated cold fusion. I was SO close to the answers!

And finally, mercifully, success!

That may have been the ultimate "ice breaker" and we had a great day afield. I learned to manage "performance anxiety" and successfully relieved myself no less than 4 times throughout the day without a hitch. It became a point of pride.

Through all that - somehow, in 9 straight hours of fishing - she never once called for the livewell. I don't know how she did it.

So, thanks E-r-i-n. You're a great fisher-woman-person. And thanks for not peeing in my boat!

Fishing Together!

As I mentioned before, I've been fishing in tournaments with my Uncle Buster. Not with him exactly - more like around him, or in his orbit, or generally nearby.  Basically, we attend the same tournaments and he is generally kind and helpful and tolerates my presence and woeful ignorance until it is time to go home, then he goes home. It's like that.

Actually, imagine a situation wherein you are confronted with the presence of a much younger, less advanced, perhaps "developmentally challenged" child of another ethnicity or nationality who is also a relative and also refuses to leave you alone. Our "fishing together" is maybe more like that.

Just so I am perfectly clear - imagine the child described above has always been around and probably will never leave and eventually you resign yourself to the idea that at nearly any point you may turn around and there he is - grinning and waving and thrilled to see you and hungry and needing help and lost and hallucinating and bleeding profusely on your best rug.

We've been having a blast!

A Salute to Fatherhood

Fatherhood, like marriage, has been an incredibly interesting and satisfying gig. It's part of life that changes you and you can't help it and nobody could prepare you for it and if they could - they wouldn't, because its so much more satisfying to watch other people struggle.

Satisfying though it may be - marriage and fatherhood do change you.  I'm older and fatter, sure, but I'm also more responsible, poorer, and much less entertaining; so I've got that going for me.

That's not all: I used to eyeball a good looking girl in the elevator and KNOW, deep down inside - she wants me, Bad. I was certain of it. "Who was she???" Who cares!?? There I stood - chubby, freckled and desirable. What more could a woman want?

After spending nearly 4 years in very close proximity to a live female - I now know the answer to that question: "ALOT", but it doesn't matter! HAH! I'm married, I have a child, I smell like ground-up english peas and cooked carrots (which I hate) and yesterday I rummaged around in my pocket after my truck keys and I came out with a bottle nipple and a baby spoon all squashed together in a damp fragment of paper towel. That's not sexy.

I haven't seen a good-looking girl on an elevator in years. It's not that she doesn't exist - I'm sure she's still there (talking loudly on her telephone in the elevator because basic rules of conduct don't apply to the super-hot) it's just that I couldn't possibly care less. Is she standing in the way of the button that takes me to the 1st floor? Yes? Then the best thing she can possibly do for me is get out of my way. There is a very grubby rugwallower at home in need of a bath and the time slot I have in which to complete that task without an explosive come-apart is shockingly narrow.

Nowadays I get on that elevator and all I see is the hazy outline of a woman on a telephone who is sure to find a way to aggravate me if only she had the time....

No thanks! "First floor, please"....

That's not all that's changed. I don't even remember how it felt to read a magazine that hadn't been lovingly mouthed for a few hours in prelude to a thorough mastication of the cover and all the best articles - satisfying, I bet.

Certain defining elements of my persona have suddenly disappeared entirely. I used to go to bed between midnight and 4AM as a basic rule. I felt good about that. You can sleep when you're dead, right? Now, if I'm not in bed by 9 - I probably am dead.

If it's past 8PM and I can't lean forward in my chair and glimpse the outboard corner of my bed - I start to panic. I need that bed, folks, and once I am in it - nary a sound reaches my ears; which is a particularly helpful skill if you happen to have a 10 month old.

I told you all of that so that I could tell you this - the only fatherhood tip I feel confident enough to share with you - Earplugs - Wicked, yet effective!!

Go Out On top

Marriage is pretty exciting. After 5ish years of it I find that I like it and I wouldn't go back to singleness, willingly, for any reason.

I cannot seem to use my mouth to make the right sounds to explain this concept to my wife; but I also definitely wouldn't get married again.

Let me 'splain.

Years ago I made an incredible behind-the-neck full-court shot with a basketball. It was fantastic. My friend Danica saw me do it - which was even better because she was lovely. Deep in the throes of teenage hubris, my hormone-addled process of deductive reasoning led me down the following path: "That was great. Therefore, I must also be great. Therefore, I shall definitely perform this feat again to the delight of the beautiful women surrounding me."

I lined up and sent the ball whipping back across the driveway once more.....to land squarely on the hood of my friend Leigh's Dad's new convertible. It made a terribly unpleasant metallic crunching sound - and it definitely left a mark. Fortunately, it was a Miata. So, you know.....

Danica said "Yeah, you really should learn to go out on top" and stalked back inside on a pair of lanky well-turned stems. Later, she went to Harvard - without me.

So, thanks Danica - you taught me something important that day.

It is because of that key lesson that I know better than to ever remarry. Instead, if the world exploded and I found myself single again - I would chase women and hope not to catch them and I would go on adventures. So, just to be clear - if I weren't married - I would chase women and adventure. That's all.

Also, I would build an aggressive firepit and have fantastic bonfires in my front yard, which I am presently not allowed to do - and I might buy a pet lion.

That really is all.

Go Out On top

Marriage is pretty exciting. After 5ish years of it I find that I like it and I wouldn't go back to singleness, willingly, for any reason.

I cannot seem to use my mouth to make the right sounds to explain this concept to my wife; but I also definitely wouldn't get married again.

Let me 'splain.

Years ago I made an incredible behind-the-neck full-court shot with a basketball. It was fantastic. My friend Danica saw me do it - which was even better because she was lovely. Deep in the throes of teenage hubris, my hormone-addled process of deductive reasoning led me down the following path: "That was great. Therefore, I must also be great. Therefore, I shall definitely perform this feat again to the delight of the beautiful women surrounding me."

I lined up and sent the ball whipping back across the driveway once more.....to land squarely on the hood of my friend Leigh's Dad's new convertible. It made a terribly unpleasant metallic crunching sound - and it definitely left a mark. Fortunately, it was a Miata. So, you know.....

Danica said "Yeah, you really should learn to go out on top" and stalked back inside on a pair of lanky well-turned stems. Later, she went to Harvard - without me.

So, thanks Danica - you taught me something important that day.

It is because of that key lesson that I know better than to ever remarry. Instead, if the world exploded and I found myself single again - I would chase women and hope not to catch them and I would go on adventures. So, just to be clear - if I weren't married - I would chase women and adventure. That's all.

Also, I would build an aggressive firepit and have fantastic bonfires in my front yard, which I am presently not allowed to do - and I might buy a pet lion.

That really is all.

One Funny Thing

A number of funny things have happened to me lately: I had a kid, I've seen a great deal of breast pumping first-hand - which is hysterical; I had a 3-yr anniversary; and I saw a big lady fall down in a parking lot and nobody saw it but me. That's the kind of thing I'm talking about.

Some not-at-all-funny things have happened too: I realized that one day I'm going to die - which is infuriating; I invented something amazing late one night, then fell asleep and forgot what it was; I tore the bottom off my favorite pair of boots; and I got a wart on my thumb. The wart is gone, so are the boots.

So, that's the update on what's funny and what's not.

In the midst of all that, I bought a new truck (don't worry - I kept the old one), Tripp found a nanny, I placed #52 out of about 300 people in my bass fishing tournament season; and I used something expensive of my Uncle Buster's (Tractor) and John's (Trailer) without completely destroying either of them; which is a huge personal victory. Don't get me wrong, I definitely broke SOME of the things on each item, but I didn't break ALL of the things, or render them totally inoperable - so I consider it a win.

I don't know why I haven't written much this year - except that I never have been 100% committed to the idea that anybody cares what I think; and I'm occupied with a 4 month old who, so far, doesn't hate me.

So, "sorry about that", or - "you're welcome", depending on how you feel about it.

One day maybe I'll write a book. In the meantime: here's this:

Beached

The Ewing family recently had its first official Ewing Family Beach Trip since 2005. In the ensuing period we lost a family member and added 4 for a net gain of 3 (if you count the additions from Alabama).

Nora counts, obviously, because she's nearly impossible to igNORA.  After 7 days of living with her I can say, conclusively, that someone had best GET HER DAMN PASSY.

(PASSY GET IT. PASSY GET IT. PASSY GET IT. PASSY! AAAAAAAAAAHHH!)

William III and Tripp III are pretty solid campers - with caveat to their astonishing ability to blow the bottom out of a diaper. If its not industrial strength - you're wasting your time. I've tried to envision a diaper pressure relief valve of some sort to alleviate "lateral blowout", but all I'm coming up with is a pint-sized anaerobic digester with an elaborate piping system that I can't imagine being terribly comfortable. And remember - whatever Mom eats ends up blasting through kiddie an hour later like a quart of liquid hot magma. I have slapped a bottle of hot sauce out of Tyler's hand on a number of occasions and its been worth it - every time.

After an 8yr hiatus I can report that pretty much everything has changed except, of course, "Mr. Green", my much-lauded veteran bathing suit, and Dad's magical ability to spend a week in tropical climes while getting absolutely no sun whatsoever.

It's a new era.

All the best from Tripp III et. al.

So, I Guess I'm a Dad

I signed Tyler up for a quick one-hour massage as thanks for being a solid Mom for the last 6 weeks (to Tripp – not me). 

Me? I’m fine. 

For dinner Tuesday night we had “Cooked Meat Sandwich” with get-your-own-water, and you-don’t-need-a-napkin, and the-forks-are-in-the-kitchen.

To be clear: that’s meat on bread with part of an onion on it.  You know – “Cooked Meat Sandwich”.

Anyway, she was grateful for the massage, which started at 1PM, so she thanked me at 12:45 and toodled out the door unsteadily in a sleep-deprived fog. She walked into the garage - forgetting to shut the door behind her, returned, and and pulled it all the way closed with a “click”.

The sound of that fateful click boomed hollowly in my ears as it dawned on me – I had miscalculated. I was alone with a 6-week-old and it was entirely my own fault.

At the “click” I turned to find Tripp with his head thrown back and his mouth open wide in a soundless howl of anguish emanating from the very depths of his tiny, unformed soul. I felt galvanized; rooted to the spot at the sheer volume of fury simply pouring out of what, moments before, had been a peacefully sleeping infant.

He cried, then he pooped, then he dropped his pacifier, then he cried again, then peed, then cried, then spit out his pacifier, then he was hungry, so I fed him, so he puked, so I changed him, then he had gas, which made him cry, which gave him the hiccups, which made him cry harder, then he pooped, then he cried and peed and pooped, so I changed him, then he was hungry again, so I fed him, so he had terrible gas and cried, then pooped, so I changed him, then he peed, so I changed him, then he peed harder, so I changed him….and all his clothes…..and his swing cushion….which made him cry.

I looked at my watch – it was 1:45.  Soiled diapers dotted the den and foyer like toadstools and the child was lying, naked, on the floor with the “Marketplace” section of the Wall Street Journal spread underneath him.

I texted Tyler at 1:46 – “I am sorry, but you are going to need to come home.”

She texted back at 2:15 “I didn’t get your message”.

And then, I cried. 

The Duckling Killer Exposed

me:  Shannon: as you know I've decided to interview a few interesting family members. As my first cousin and a notorious family "character" - I've chosen to start with you. I think it's time the non-famous get in a word or two.

Also, I intend to make fun of you and perhaps highlight your flaws. Sound good?

Shannon:  Sounds good. A little scared but I think I can hang...

me:  Ok, lets start off small. Whats the worst thing you've ever done?

Shannon:  Wow. Eh, I feel like a really bad person right now.... I hate to say it, but I'm a duck murderer....That poor duckling ..... qqqqqwwwhackkkk!

me:  Ah, yes. I thought that story from your childhood might surface. You accidentally sat on and killed the baby duckling you received as an Easter present.  That was a pretty terrible thing to do, particularly on Easter. 

Shannon: I still feel guilty about it. 

Me: Yeah, I think it probably does make you a bad person; but that was a long time ago - what else terrible have you done? Did you kill another helpless baby animal with your bottom?

Shannon:  No....Only a duck. And a squirrel and armadillo that I ran over with my car.

me:  Do incongruous pairings of animals often run out in front of your car to commit suicide, or were these multiple instances?

Shannon:  Haha no they happened at different times. The armadillo I'm pretty sure did some damage to the undercarriage of my car.

me:  "Undercarriage". Heh. I love that word.

me: Let's keep going. Do you find that you talk to yourself out loud?

Shannon:  Absolutely. I mainly talk to myself when I'm really trying to focus on something. My co-workers think I'm pretty crazy.

me:  By "co-workers" you mean actual people, right?

Shannon:  Yes the other nurses I work with.

me: Gotcha. Do you have a favorite film?

Shannon:  My current favorite is The Dark Knight Rises...I've watched it 4 times since Saturday. That's averaging once a day...not too bad, eh?

me:  Wow. What is today?

Shannon: Tuesday

me:  That is correct. Just making sure you knew.

me:  Did you watch the entire film daily, or certain key parts? Mom watched key parts from Napoleon Dynamite every morning. So, I am familiar with that particular compulsion.

Shannon:  I actually paid attention once. The other 3 times I listened with that far away sense of hearing and I would perk up when my ears caught the parts I liked. 

me:  I use that "Far Away Sense of Hearing" sometimes when Tyler is talking to me, but she confuses it with "not listening at all" so it rarely works to my advantage.

me: On the topic of films: What is the most hilarious on-screen nekkid scene in history? My pick is the sorority pillow fight scene in Animal House. In all my years of lurking outside sorority houses with binoculars - I never once saw a naked pillow fight of any kind. Everytime I see that scene I'm like "Hah! Idiots! That never actually happens!!"

me: Ok, sorry. What's yours?

Shannon:  Eh, ok. Mine is from Forgetting Sarah Marshall when Jason Segal shakes his willy at Kristin Bell right before she breaks up with him. It reminds me of something that [my boyfriend] Chad MIGHT do, not something Chad HAS done. 

me:  Ah. It's amazing the joy and wonderment that comes from having dangly parts, is it not?  Why are naked people so fascinating?

Shannon: Hahaha! I don't know about all that!

me:  Recently someone told me that a man lives in your attic.  I assume she meant the ghost of someone you chopped up into tiny pieces is haunting you. Is that true? Are you subject to a haunting?? Maybe an ex-boyfriend?

Shannon:  Um...I don't think there is anyone in my attic. All of my ex boyfriends are alive.  Anyway, he would have a heck of a time getting out of there. I made Dad and [his friend] Glen wiggle through the access panel to inspect it  and it was not easy for them. At all.

me:  Ok, fair enough. If you do have a haunting you should call the psychic hotline, but do it from your parents house like I do. I think it's expensive.

me:  On the topic of exes - which of your exes do you think we, as a family, liked the least?

Shannon:  Bobby

me:  Wow, that was the quickest response time from any question yet, but that's not true. We liked the white one the least. The rest were ok. 

Shannon:  You must be getting me confused with [my sister] Ashley. 

me:  TOUCHE, MADAME! ZINGER!!

me:  Whew, but even your worst exes were still better than nearly all of Ashley's boyfriends, weren't they?

Shannon:  Hahahaha YES.

me:  She dated some derelicts didn't she? What was that all about?

Shannon:  She sure did. I guess she needed to meet a bunch of wrong ones before she could truly appreciate the right one. I think [her husband] Justin is a gift from God.

me:  I don't care if he's a gift from Buddha, Hare Krishna, or the Three Wisemen - just as long as he'll stick around.

me:  Remember the real' squirrelly guy she dated that didn't believe in toothpaste? He was my favorite.

Shannon:  Yeah, he was a grouch. He also had Oscar The Grouch night slippers that he NEVER took off, which made sense.

me:  Heh. I am surprised none of them ever had to bareknuckle fight [your younger sister] Natalie in a public forum. She's super aggressive. 

Shannon:  Natalie would probably win. Or I could just sit on 'em. Then I would really be a murderer.

me:  ....Sure worked on that duckling....

me: Ok, moving on. Do you find Uncle Buster terrifying or wonderful? Because it seems like most people fall into one of the two camps.

Shannon:  I think he is wonderful.  I saw him bottle-feed [tiny cousin] William at the beach and it confirmed for me that he is a big 'ol softy. I was ticked at him for that too. He stole my second opportunity for getting to feed that baby a bottle....but that was a personal issue of mine...no fault of his.

me:  I'm going to have to disagree with you there.  I once saw Uncle Buster kill a live Grizzly Bear with his bare hands without even dropping his fishing rod. So, clearly he can't be THAT soft.

Shannon: ..... It was really Margaret's fault for allowing him to bottle feed the baby and not letting me do it.....

me:  I can see that situation has really stuck with you. Perhaps you need to get a baby of your own going in the 'ol womb-parts. That'll set you right.

Shannon:  Gotta finish school and get a husband first..

me:  Nah, the order isn't that important. Just get you a baby percolating. Let the rest kinda sort itself out.

me: So, before we leave the topic of Uncle Buster, do you remember the first time he got you to use tobacco?

Shannon:  I have smoked a cigarette once, but that was because of Grandaddy not Buster. I asked him for some money at the beach. Instead, he bought me a carton of Marlboros and told me to sell them to [our cousin Beau] for $5 a pack. I did, but I "smoked" one of them first. I was 6.

me:  ....which puts Beau at about 8....Entrepreneurship gets instilled in us early in this family. 
me: That has "Granddad" written all over it. He was able to teach a quick lesson in demand economics, get both of you in trouble, AND infuriate both sets of parents. 

me: What is your favorite smell?

Shannon:  Ohhhhh this is a GREAT question! Gasoline and White Out and rubber cement.

me:  Good choices. Interesting that you chose three hallucinogenic organic solvents.

me: Do you love new smells? I know I do

Shannon:  Depends on what it is....but mostly yes.

me:  Ok, what is the WORST smell your smeller has smelt?

Shannon:  A pulse oximeter from a baby's foot. [Our cousin] Maggie can attest to that one...I gave her one for Christmas one year because you know how much she likes weird smells...She gagged.

me:  Whoah!  I did not see that one coming! Do you find you kind of want to smell that smell again for some reason? Deep down inside?

Shannon:  No, because I have to smell it on a regular basis in my job as a nurse, so I don't ever have a longing for it. It doesn't matter how little the baby, they all smell the same.

me:  But, obviously, you've chosen to return to that terrible smell on a number of occasions because its a bad smell, but you can't quite get enough of it. Admit it.

Shannon:  Yeah I have to because if you don't change it to a different foot every 12 hours it will irritate the baby's foot....The "yeah" above is not an admission by the way.

me:  "Mmmm, Hmmm..."

Shannon:  Also, I have seen 6 toes on one foot before and an extra pinky finger that looked exactly like a flesh colored junior mint.

me: Wow, that is an interesting factoid, but I'm not big on toes. I dated a girl one time that had 10 toes, and I hated all of them and the rest of her too. 

me: For some reason I bet you can generate watchfunk like a champion. 

Shannon:  What is watch funk?

me:  Nevermind.

me: ok, lets keep rolling here. we're nearing the end of our time together.

me:  They say an obsession with strange smells has alot to do with the Mother/Daughter connection, so lets talk about your Mom for a second. Who is the nuttiest, your Mom or [your Dad] Uncle Robert? 

Shannon:  My mom can be nuttier than him at times.

me:  We're picking "nuttiest" not hedging our bets here, Missy.

Shannon:  Dad then. 

me:  Is it at all possible that the Mother/Daughter connection is the reason you find such solace in foot smells?

Shannon: I'm not sure, but I guess it is possible.

me: What is your take on female body hair? Kill it or keep it?

Shannon:  Kill it - and trust me - I know from experience.  I definitely got the hairy gene. When [our cousin] Thomas was one and a half he asked me "why I had a beard?" I got my face waxed the next day. 

me:  How'd having a beard feel? Kinda felt good, didn't it?

Shannon:  It wasn't a full beard. I like to think of it as exaggerated sideburns. I didn't really notice the feel so much...

me:  Ah yes. A crustache can certainly sneak up on a young lady unawares.

Shannon:  Yes it can.

me:  I do notice that lately you have lovely smooth skin and a rosy complexion (and no beard). Do you have a secret skincare regimen (or shaver)?

Shannon:  Not really and I think that's the key. People who use all that face stuff tend to have the worst skin in my opinion. Look at XXXXXXXX. [Name Deleted]. I did, in the past year, start using a moisturizer from Clinique because the lady there told me my skin was "thirsty."

me:  Those Clinique ladies in the mall look like mannequins with face skin stretched across a wicker frame. If you're 82 and look 60 - it doesn't mean you're beautiful; it means you might be a demon. Don't let them spray their Snow White poison on you when you walk by. It'll turn you into a cripple. 

me: Any words of advice for our readers out there on The Interwebs?

Shannon:  Just be yourself. I can't stand it when people are so insecure that they feel they have to put up a front and not let other see who they truly are. "I don't front!!" I had a beard so I waxed it off, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I once had a beard

me:  ...And why would you be? Beards are AWESOME.

Shannon:  Yeah but I want boys to like me. Fortunately, Chad loves me, beard or no beard, so I may just grow it back.

me: Growing a beard is an excellent way to test a man's love. I say you try it. If he pukes, but comes back: he's yours!  In the meantime - thanks for the interview - and remember what I said about getting a baby - anytime is a good time!

How Does It Feel?

Our well-executed travel plan got us to the hospital, thanks to ME - and from there it got progressively more exciting. 

After soaking up nine months of flak from other parents ("TEN!!!" shouts Tylertoes in the background) on life “ending” and “changing” and labor being “scary” and this being a “very special time” but “hard” and “kiss your sleep goodbye” I was starting to wonder if I hadn't made a terrible mistake. 

As it turns out; you have nothing to worry about - the whole process is highly entertaining. 

Many of you who don't have a baby have asked "what does it feel like to have a baby?" That's an interesting question and I've carefully considered it. I have had a number of feelings to think through on that topic, but I have finally developed an answer for you:

Recall, for a moment how it felt to believe, deep in your spirit, that THIS VERY NIGHT, a fat foreigner is going to squeeze his big butt down your chimney to leave you great stuff.  Labor and delivery feels like that mixed with the feeling you had when your Mom said “the nice lady IS going to give you a shot, but it won’t hurt a bit.”  Earlier, you saw the nurse with the huge, clammy, sausage fingers; you know it’s going to hurt like abject hell and, for the first time, you realize an adult has betrayed you. Add that feeling in to the mix. 

So all that, PLUS, the feeling you felt the first time you boarded an airplane PLUS, the feeling you get right before you puke all over someone who does not see it coming. That’s what becoming a parent feels like.

Get excited.

Many others of you (Ernee The Attornee, for instance) are more interested in the gory details of childbirth than the "feelings" aspect. That's all you want to talk about - the indelicate details. I suspect its so you finally have license to use the word "vaginal" in conversation, but either way - I get it. It is, after all, a pretty gory process. 

The whole thing has a kind of barnyard-esque quality, but once you grow accustomed to the sheer volume and variety of fluids skeeting hither and yon – it’s no big deal. At several key, explosive, points during childbirth, I clearly recall thinking “In all my years of being a person - I've never seen that fluid before."

There really is nothing like it, but the best parallel I can draw for you is simply this: being an expectant father in the Labor and Delivery room gave me a brief glimpse into the life of a garbage man: you’re right there in the midst of something weird and smelly that you don’t want to be in the midst of, but you know eventually - you get to go home.

You'll Need a Travel Plan

I don’t love the hospital.

I think it’s the smells that put me off the most, but it may also be the rabbit warren-ness of it and the fluorescent lighting. Also, I don’t like sick people or nurses or doctors or parking decks or food on trays or smelly elevators or vinyl or paperwork touched by people who may have touched sick people. So, there’s that.

In spite of my long and well-established aversion to the hospital: I am very pleased to announce that Saturday, June 1 at 2:25 PM - with absolutely nothing at all wrong with me and completely of my own accord - I went to the hospital.  It was a hurdle moment for me, personally, and also for Tyler who was mid-way through labor and clawed the handle out of the doorframe the whole ride over.

The fact that we made it before the baby came is purely a testament to the Travel portion of our Birth Plan. That’s the part of the Birth Plan I was responsible for, and I am sure you will find that I executed it with precision and aplomb.

To that end: I’d like to talk to you, briefly, regarding the importance of The Travel Plan.

Our Travel Plan involved a few key elements that were taught us by some quack Youtube video series I was made to watch against my will in exchange for getting to go fishing. The key elements are as follows:

      Don’t deviate from The Travel Plan
      Have your car selected and ready to go in advance
      Have your bag packed and ready to go in advance  
      Don’t speed or run traffic signs

I sat in front of the television that fateful night in March, drinking a cocktail, and thinking “this is stupid”.

I was wrong about that.

We planned to take Tyler’s car which already had a carseat and whatnot installed in it. That was a good plan, but at the last minute, I deviated.  I panicked at the thought of not being near my truck in case I needed a chainsaw or rubber gloves or a toolkit or mouthwash or tow straps or bullets or a 6-ton bottle jack or fuses or a tarp or a bayonet. So, I called an “audible” and we took my truck which contained no carseat, stroller, or hospital paperwork; but had all that other stuff.  Tyler tried to object, but was in no condition to put up a fight and I won my first argument.

I did not pack a bag. On Bag Packing Day I went fishing instead, but I pulled my bag out, zipped it shut and put it by the back door so it would LOOK like I packed a bag. That bag was a lie and it sat by the door, heaping burning coals of guilt on my head for several months. It contained my lucky pair of boxers and a fishing magazine that I’d been saving for an emergency - and that is all.

Fortunately, because I had my truck at the hospital - and all my emergency supplies in it – I didn’t need a bag. Problem solved. Nothing bad comes from being prepared for nearly everything and, in case you were wondering about the little red kit in my truck box: that’s an emergency kit to fix an emergency kit.

On the way to the interstate I made a last minute adjustment to our route and we went through neighborhoods instead of I-75.  I find that interstates make me feel confined in an emergency. My initial Travel Plan failed to contemplate that. My Adjusted Travel Plan failed to contemplate Tyler’s propensity for carsickness which kicked in halfway down a very curvaceous Northside Drive. Fortunately for her, the nausea took her mind off the contractions.

Regardless, we reached Piedmont Hospital from Sandy Springs in about 4 minutes because I ran most of the red lights and all of the stop signs at high speed. I did that, in clear violation of the law, because the only thought in my head was “find someone to get this woman out of my car.” 

Riding in a car with a woman in labor is like riding in the car with a demon holding a live grenade. You really can’t think about anything except getting out of the car. That’s all you can focus on - one of us is going to have to get out of this car right away, this minute or something terrible may happen. If Piedmont were much further away I’d have jumped out on Peachtree and shouted “go on ahead – I’ll meet you there”.

That, in short, is why you need a Travel Plan.

The Big Bassippotamus

Let me set the stage for you:

Imagine that it's cold and rainy and 5:10AM. You have driven 90 miles to get in a single-file line of 155 pickup trucks full of grumpy, hairy, unkempt men; all waiting impatiently to park for approximately 45 seconds in a slot the size of a parking space. There exists not 155 slots, but two. Two slots.

Now add a 25’ long trailer to each truck and take the guy who owns the truck out of the equation and put some other guy behind the wheel. This guy is your fishing partner - randomly-assigned by the tournament director. Have that guy panic and select someone else (a passer-by) completely at random to drive your truck while you sit in your boat on the trailer thinking cheerful thoughts and wondering what is going on.

Also, the "slot" is a "boat ramp" which is full of “water”.  Also, you have forgotten to fill the truck up with gas. So, maybe the truck will run out of fuel while you are in line and the entire process will grind to a miserably embarrassing halt. Also, it is 51 degrees and pouring down rain. You don't know this yet, but it's going to rain all day.

Just to be clear, the scenario I have described is: me, sitting in my boat on dry land, on a trailer, behind my truck, in a huge line of trucks, in the pouring rain, in the dark. Someone I don't know is behind the wheel and another guy I don't know, who was originally behind the wheel, has abdicated his seat and we may or may not be about to run out of fuel.  

Interesting, eh?

Comedy abounds. Then, fury. Then, words are shouted. Later, everyone tacitly forgets what happened at the boat ramp and the comedy and fury are replaced with camaraderie….Until two of the same boats want to get to the same cove and catch the same fish. Then its mostly fury again. Then, tacit amnesia when it’s all over.

I stood in line to weigh my fish right next to a guy who nearly ran me over trying to beat me to a fishing spot not 4 hours previously.

I took the high road and fished elsewhere.

Do you know what the "high road" is paved with? Unkind thoughts. I had many very unkind thoughts while on the high road. One of them involves me leaning over the rude man's deathbed in 60 years pointing my bony, decrepit finger at him and shouting SEE THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO RUDE PEOPLE. THEY DIE BEFORE I DO. Ahhaaaahaaaa!!! 

A savvy psychiatrist could set a sofa out on the marina dock and make a living charging $20 an hour to returning fishermen. I, for one, would have paid it because, for possibly the first time in my life, I have some feelings I'd like to talk through.

I Have Some Questions

1. Do babies drink water at all? If so - how much? If not - how does he live without water?? And don't say "breast milk". I am 100% sure if all I had to drink for 8 months was milk - I'd shrivel up and die.

2. Does an automotive laser heat sensing thermometer for $11.99 work the same as a baby forehead laser thermometer for $129.99? Methinks it do.

3. What shape has my wife turned into under all that baby?

4. How long before a baby could theoretically ride on a Saint Bernard in a leather saddle that was theoretically homemade by someone theoretical?

5. Can a baby wear a suit and a tie? Because a suit and tie on a baby sounds hilarious.

6. Can you leave a baby asleep in a crib while you run down the street to your Dad's house to borrow a tool and also maybe take some special firewood that you are not allowed to take?

7. Can you freeze breast milk? What things might one do with frozen breast milk?

8. Once upon a time I had a girlfriend who would aggravate me terribly on long car rides - completely unprovoked. Eventually, I would tire of her barrage, pull over, and use the ignition key to turn off her airbag.

This made her very angry.

Apparently, the government says you must turn off the airbag in your truck for the baby to ride up front. That is not the case for girlfriends.

A. Why does the government hate babies?
B. How about if you just turn it down real' low?
C. How about if the carseat is strapped to the floorboard up front? What then?

9. For how long can a baby swim unattended? Obviously, you don't want your baby to get waterlogged.

10. Do they make a stroller that's also a unicycle? Because I want one of those.

11. Could you or could you not remove the blade from your self-powered lawnmower and turn it into a self-powered stroller? Why or why not?

12. If my wife has been losing no hair during pregnancy will she then lose a ton of hair after pregnancy? Because that sounds terrible.

13. What is the best room for your wife to sleep in until the baby can talk - a guest room or the baby's room?

14. Could you make a kind of baby "nest" in the center console of your truck so the baby is more accessible during long road trips?

15. Do most babies share my love of loud noises and new smells?

16. Can a breast pump be modified to plug into a cigarette lighter? How powerful is a breast pump? Could it, for instance, power a livewell in a pinch?

17. Do they make hearing protection for babies? Earmuffs? Earplugs? If so - who makes it? If not - how is your baby expected to tolerate gunfire?

18. If you take your baby with you to commit a crime such as a B&E (breaking and entering) or even a simple burglary wherein no one is injured and very little of value is taken, except for perhaps some firewood; does that make the baby an accessory to said crime?

19. What do you do with a criminal B&E baby? Is there a place in jail for criminal babies? Because it seems to me that after being confined for 100% of their lives up to this point - jail wouldn't be much of a punishment.

20. How do babies and convertibles mix? "Well", I hope?

21. How old before your baby can "hold the wheel" while you take off your jacket? Because when that happened to me I was 3 and Dad ended up with both arms pinned behind his back by a Members Only jacket shouting at me through a mouthful of steering wheel. At least, that's what it sounded like - I had both hands over my eyes so I couldn't see exactly how he got us back on the road.

I feel like if I had been asked to perform that task at a more appropriate stage (perhaps younger?) I would have been better prepared.

Tube Socks

I have been concerned lately that I've had nothing funny to write about. Or I am not funny. Or I was never funny, and now I am finding out. I don't feel any different, but maybe something has changed? Do crazy people know they're crazy? Because I feel fine.

All the uncertainty is beginning to weigh on me.

Am I getting normal? Is this what normal feels like - kind of dull and regular? Is this part of becoming a Dad? What's next? TUBE SOCKS??? Because that is the circle of life: you start off in tube socks, graduate to big boy socks in different colors like gray, blue, and tan. Then, at some point, you end up 82 years old in your front yard pushing a lawn mower wearing blue velcro shoes and tube socks pulled up over your white knobby knees. GO INSIDE OLD MAN - NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THOSE TUBE SOCKS!!!

Egh. Maybe I am depressed. Am I falling apart? All I can think about is insulating the attic and if I have the right kind of screws for 7/16" plywood decking.

I was riding around thinking these and many other thoughts, when it occurred to me: I'm probably fine. I may not be funny, but at least nothing has changed.

That cheered me up a bit and I chuckled. Then I looked around and realized: I'm not driving anymore - I'm standing in the "wrenches" aisle at Home Depot brandishing a huge crescent wrench and giggling at nobody in particular. 

I bought the wrench.

Born With It

Preparing for childbirth has been an educational experience, to say the least. It has also been a time of quiet reflection…frequently interrupted by grizzly bear sounds emanating from the mound of pillows festooning the port side of the bed.

Too often men slide through life failing to reflect on how far they have come and what it took to get there. Not me - I know. I have not come a long way and getting here has not been hard at all. I just kind of wandered around in the desert then, Hey, look! There’s a water fountain! And I have been standing here ever since.

Despite lately finding myself married to a complete stranger; one who has been desperately smuggling a full aquarium around under her skin for 8 months - I number among the fortunate few who rarely, if ever, come under substantial spousal flack regarding my many outdoor pursuits. As a single person I guess I assumed that was part of life and the time and ability to do these things was just part of being me.

I now know: that is a terrible lie.

When I consider the time I spent as a child traveling around the state hunting and fishing and whatnot - I am amazed. I did something terribly fun and dangerous nearly every weekend, generally with Dad, and if not – then with an infinitely less responsible Uncle. I also realize now that those Uncles genuinely were not the least bit worried about me, my safety, or possibly dying. Back then I assumed all adults were bound to keep their nephews safe as a matter of course. In retrospect: I actually had that thought as a 6-yr-old while riding through the woods perched on the hood of a tractor like a chubby hood ornament with Uncle Buster’s admonition “Don’t grab that exhaust pipe – it is 800 degrees” ringing in my ears.

Mom was right to worry.

At the same time all that was going on, Dad raised two other kids, stayed married, kept a job, paid for a house and cars and got us all through expensive private colleges that we probably did not deserve.

Now, with the impending specter of fatherhood looming over me; it all makes sense: I didn't get to hunt, fish, and act like a Wild Boy on the weekends because I was born with it; I got to act like a Wild Boy because Dad was born with it - and more importantly; born with the ability to stay efficient during the week. If the water heater had still been out of commission at 5PM on Friday – nobody would have been going deer hunting. If Mom couldn't wash her hair – everything stopped.

Last week I considered my list of mandatory to-do’s for the week and this thought went through my brain: “I could just stay here and deck the attic on Saturday instead of going fishing” and in my mind, in that instant, that option actually sounded plausible.

It was a terrifying moment, so I immediately retreated into my workshop to sulk.

As I sat there at my Fishing Stuff Bench, sulking, it hit me that now, finally, I realize what it means to be a Dad; mostly because: I've turned into mine.

So, instead, of decking the attic and painting the hallway on the weekend, I wore myself out all week doing it at night, then I went hunting on Saturday at 4AM, got my truck stuck, found a deer skull in the woods, got covered in ticks even though I know about Lyme disease, heard 5 turkeys gobble, got soaking wet, got covered in mud, then came home feeling very pleased with myself.

Maybe you can also learn to be a Do-It-Yourself-er (see below) and a Lifelong Wild Boy; but I can tell you one thing: it is definitely hereditary.

Thanks Dad. 

A Free Market

For a number of years we have had a mailman notorious for spending his lunch break parked at the top of my parents' driveway reading Dad’s gun magazines. As a child we’d pull out in the minivan and wave. He’d hold up "American Rifleman" and wave. Later, Dad would get his magazine all nice and fluffed out from being pre-read. I didn't realize that wasn't normal until I was in college.

To this day he still leaves a note in my mailbox on June 23 wishing Mom a happy birthday and now he reads my gun magazines and Dad's. Certain unforeseen perks arise from living on the street you grew up on....

Our mail arrangement is a pretty equitable system. Arthur’s reading certainly doesn't cost us anything and most of the time he manages to shake all those annoying loose inserts out into the street as a public service. It is a symbiotic relationship based on an exchange of value. We let him read our magazines, he takes care of the inserts. Everybody is square. I appreciate that sort of courtesy from service providers and it further illustrates how prevalent the concept of "exchange" is in our society. To me, our arrangement with Arthur says "hey, ain't a free market friendly"?

We are a capitalist society, so if you live in the USA, no matter who you are or what your philosophical leanings; you’ll eventually have to enter into an exchange and generate some cash to get from A to B. I know that and I’m fine with the concept of “profit.” Profit means that I have to pay you some negotiated amount more than it costs you to do or make something, and you get to keep the extra. The key is “negotiation”. I don’t really have to pay you anything at all – you could give it to me. Or, I can pay you a ton. It’s up to us to work all that out.

Isn’t it fun?

If negotiations go properly, all parties ultimately feel the satisfaction of "winning". I get what I want - you get what you want; and we each leave convinced that we have somehow hoodwinked the other. In my experience, that is rarely ever true, but it is a pleasant fiction nonetheless.

My brother, Young George, calls that little bit extra from negotiation: “walking-around-money.” My other brother, Fred, calls it “cashy-spendy-money.” Whatever you call it - I’m glad to get it, but I’m also glad to give it because I don’t want to Roto-Root, for instance, or formulate my own termite spray, or grow huge volumes of tomatoes, or manufacture hairdryers for myself, or pump well water, or drill for oil and refine gasoline. Instead, I just pay someone a little bit more than it costs them to do it for me. Brilliant!!

Sometimes, even though I CAN, I don’t even want to do certain things to my own vehicle. Sure, I CAN put in a new set of wheel bearings, but that’s 3hrs I don’t have right now.

Due to time constraints, I recently crumbled, violated my strict DIY mentality, and took my ailing pickup to the shop. They have not yet called to attempt to take advantage of me, but when they do I anticipate a negotiation of some sort is shortly to commence. I shall report back the results directly.